Lavish Didi Stories - The Mascot - Chapter 5

Author’s note: All my characters are consenting adults (18+). All sexual acts depicted are consensual between the adult characters.

Chapter 5 

I opened my mouth because there was nothing else the night had left me.

MJ stepped in until the heat of him was all I could smell. Sweat. Skin. The leftover body spray losing a war it had already lost in the parking lot. The push-up contest still sat on him — breath not all the way even, a shine on his chest, the faded cut damp at the temples. He looked down at me like a man looking at a trophy he wasn’t supposed to want and wanted anyway.

“Alright,” he said. “Alright. Don’t bite. Don’t get cute. Vin said no hands. That’s on you.”

The rope bit when I flexed. Omar’s knots held. My shoulders were already talking. MJ took himself in his right fist and tapped the head once against my lower lip, not gentle, not cruel, just checking the door. It was hot. It was already wet. It was bigger up close than the joke had room for.

Nick made a sound from the couch.

“Look at him. He’s about to try and park a truck in a little garage.”

“Jealousy’s a disease,” MJ said, not looking away from my mouth.

“I’m not jealous. I’m concerned for the architecture of his face.”

Vincent had both hands in his own hair.

“Depth first. Then rhythm. I’m collecting—”

“If you say data I will put that laptop through a window,” Nate said.

He was standing with his arms crossed, shirt still buttoned wrong, the intellectual mustache a straight line. Serious. The kind of serious that meant he was watching every inch and would deny it at the firm on Monday.

Omar had pulled a throw pillow into his lap somewhere between the rope and now. He sat like a man watching a game he wasn’t in. The pillow was doing work. His jaw said bro. His eyes said something else.

MJ pushed.

The first inch was just weight. Salt. Heat. My lips stretched around him and my brain did the stupid thing of trying to measure. There was no measuring. He fed it in slow because even MJ, champion of champions, had a moment of wait. My tongue went flat. My jaw opened until it hurt. He stopped with the head on my tongue and breathed out through his nose.

“Okay. Okay that’s — that’s a lot of cock.” Someone said.

MJ laughed, startled at himself.

“That’s not even halfway, mascot.”

The guys lost it. The kind of laugh that had nerves in it. Nick leaned so far forward the couch complained.

“Halfway. He’s not even halfway and Troy’s already making the face. I told you. I told you that thing doesn’t belong in a person.”

I wanted it there. That was the part I could not say. The rope, the dare, the two loads already drying on my cheeks — all of that was the door. What was behind the door was simpler. I had wanted this since the first time I saw MJ peel a shirt off after practice and pretend it wasn’t a show. I felt lucky in a way that sat in my stomach and made my shorts a problem I could not fix with my hands tied. 

Harder than I had ever been in my life. The kind of hard that made thinking messy. I thought about Nick’s thick still trapped in gray. I thought about Nate’s clean line. I thought about Omar under that pillow. I thought about Vincent already filling out the front of his sweatpants again, the virgin who had painted me and wanted a sequel. I did not say any of that. The game had a winner. The winner was standing in my mouth.

MJ pushed again.

Deeper. He found the back of my tongue and kept going. I gagged, once, ugly, and he held still like a good athlete waiting out a cramp.

“Breathe,” he said. Coach voice. Locker-room voice. “Nose. Come on. You got it.”

I breathed. Barely. He used the opening and gave me another inch. My eyes watered without permission. Spit ran over my lip and down my chin and onto the carpet because I had no hands to stop it.

Vincent whispered, wrecked already.

“He’s taking it. He’s actually taking it. That’s — that’s not theoretically possible at that circumference.”

“It is possible,” MJ said, proud now, the champion arriving. “He’s doing it.”

Nick dragged a hand down his blond beard.

“This is the worst night of my life.”

“You lost fair,” MJ said, and rolled his hips a fraction. The extra thick of him slid over my tongue. I gagged again. He hissed. “Don’t tap out on me, mascot. I did sixty-eight plus five for this. I deserve this shit.”

Omar’s voice, dry, from behind the pillow.

“You did five extra to be a dick.”

“I did five extra because I could.”

Nate didn’t laugh. He watched my throat work and his mouth was a thin line.

“If he can’t breathe you pull out.”

“He can breathe,” MJ said. “Look. He’s fine. He’s a pro.”

I was not fine. I was gagging around a cock that had no business fitting and I was so turned on it felt like a second pulse. Lucky. Stupid lucky. The official funny friend was gone. The mascot was a guy on his knees with his wrists burning and his mouth full of the biggest thing in the apartment and a thought he would not say out loud: I wish it was Nick too. I wish I could do Nick after. The rules said one. Vin had said one. I kept the wish where wishes go when you are tied up in a living room.

MJ found a rhythm.

Not kind. Not vicious yet. Short strokes that used the first half of him and let me learn the shape. Each time he drew back I dragged air through my nose. Each time he pushed I made a sound that was not a word. Spit made it louder. The wet noise filled the apartment under the mute game. MJ’s hand stayed in my hair, not yanking, just steering, the way you steer a sled you have already decided is going downhill.

“There you go,” he muttered. “There you go. Good. That’s it.”

Nick couldn’t sit still.

“He’s praising him. He’s talking to him like a tight end. I can’t watch this.”

“Then don’t watch,” MJ said.

Nick watched. His own cock was out of the gray shorts now, not all the way, just the thick veined fact of it in his fist like he had forgotten he was holding it. He stroked once and stopped, angry at the stroke.

“I won the gym. I lose a living-room push-up contest and this freak gets the prize I didn’t even want.”

“You wanted it,” Omar said.

“I wanted to win.”

“Same sentence.”

Vincent had given up on standing like a scientist. He was on the arm of the couch with his knees tight, the front of the sweatpants tented so honest it was almost funny. The ridiculous mustache was a wreck, damp with sweat. He kept talking because if he stopped talking he would have to admit what his body was doing.

“Pace is good. He’s drooling. That’s a positive sign for — for compliance. MJ, if you go full depth now he’ll panic. Build.”

“I know how to use a mouth, Vin.”

“You know how to use girls,” Vincent said. “This is a different dataset.”

MJ laughed, breathless, and pushed deeper to shut him up.

I panicked.

He punched into my throat and stayed. My whole body tried to fold forward and the rope yanked me back. I gagged hard, a raw sound, spit flying. Tears went hot down the mess already on my face. MJ held me there for a count of three, champion-still, then eased back just enough that I could drag air.

“Shit,” he said, almost gentle. “Okay. Okay. You good.”

I couldn’t answer. My mouth was full again the second I nodded.

Nate’s voice, low.

“That was too much.”

“He nodded,” MJ said.

“He nodded because he can’t talk.”

“Same thing tonight.”

The guys laughed and the laugh had a crack in it. Omar adjusted the pillow. Once. Careful. His green eyes were dark and he looked like a man watching a fire he had helped light with a question.

“Mascot’s into it,” Omar said. “Don’t lie. Look at him.”

They looked. I knew what they saw. Wet mouth. Red face. Eyes gone glassy. Shorts ruined. No hands. I felt seen in a way that should have killed me and instead made everything tighter.

Nick shook his head.

“He’s been into it since he put his mouth on my nuts and forgot how to count. This is just the sequel.”

I thought about those nuts. I thought about the thick of Nick against my cheek and the moan on six and the way he had said biology like a prayer. I wanted that in my throat too. I wanted to tell him. The rules sat on my tongue under MJ and I swallowed both.

MJ stopped being careful.

The strokes got longer. Deeper. His hips started to help, short snaps that made the wet sound turn filthy. My nose hit the coarse hair at his base on the deepest ones and I gagged every time and he liked that, I could feel him like it, the way his fist tightened in my hair, the way his stomach jumped.

“Fuck,” MJ breathed. “Fuck. That’s — that’s not the same. That’s not the same as anything.”

“Tell us,” Vincent said, high.

“It’s tight. It’s wet. He keeps — he keeps choking and it does something. I don’t — I don’t have words, Vin. File that.”

Nick made a wounded noise.

“I should be in that. I should be the one. I had him first. Those were my balls. That was my moan. This is theft.”

“This is sport,” MJ said, and snapped his hips. “You lost. Get over it, bro.”

Omar, pillow locked.

“You sound real straight right now, Nick.”

“I am straight. I want a blowjob. Those can both be true. Ask any guy in a drought.”

“Ask your hand,” Nate said.

Nick pointed at him with the fist that was still on himself.

“You came on his face and got to leave. Don’t talk to me about drought.”

Nate didn’t flinch.

“I didn’t ask for a rematch. You are.”

Nick’s ears went red under the blond beard. He stroked again, meaner, like the stroke was an argument.

“I stood there and let him clean me like a dare and I put it away like a gentleman. Gentleman gets nothing. Horse cock wins a contest I didn’t train for. That’s the moral of the story.”

“The moral,” Vincent said, “is you have a weak core.”

“I will end your wifi, Vin. I will end your bloodline.”

MJ didn’t stop to enjoy the bit. He used my mouth through it, champion pace, and every time Nick talked my throat fluttered around him and MJ swore under his breath like the commentary was part of the prize.

“Keep talking,” MJ told Nick. “He’s squeezing when you’re mad. It’s helping. I guess he’s sorry for you, Nicky boy.”

“Don’t tell me that.”

“I’m telling you that.”

The tension in the room climbed like heat. I drooled down his shaft and onto his balls and the carpet. My jaw screamed. My throat fluttered every time he bottomed out. I was the luckiest person in the world and I was drowning on purpose.

I thought about lining them up. Not as a joke. As a picture I would take to bed for the rest of my live. Nate first because he smelled like a real gentleman and came quiet. Vincent because he would narrate his own orgasm and hate himself after. Also he would be fast as Flash. Omar last or first — I couldn’t decide — because the rope had been his idea and the pillow was a lie and I wanted to know what his voice did when he stopped performing mysterious. Nick in the middle. Nick thick. Nick mean. Nick the one I didn’t get to ask for. I took MJ deeper instead, because that was the dare, because that was the prize, because my hands were gone and my mouth was the only thing I had left to give.

“He’s shaking,” Vincent said. “MJ’s close. Look at his stomach.”

MJ’s abs were stacked and jumping. Shiny. Like a perfect chocolate bar. Sweat ran down the line of the tattoos on his chest. His goatee shone. He looked like a man who had won a war he hadn’t admitted he was fighting.

Nick saw it too.

“Don’t you finish yet. I’m not done being angry.”

“That’s your problem,” MJ said. “This is my prize.”

“I had him first.”

“You had ten seconds. I have a throat.”

Omar laughed once behind the pillow.

“You two are fighting over a gay mouth like it’s a parking space.”

“It is a parking space,” Nick said. “And he parked a bus in it.”

Nate rubbed his temple.

“This is a fun night. I have a trial on Monday. I am watching my friends fight over oral like a custody hearing. I should be taking notes. This is actual useful for my work.”

“Then take notes and shut the fuck up, dude.” Nick said angry.

Nate didn’t reply, just laughed.

Vincent’s knees bounced.

“Historical note. Nick has not looked away for four minutes. That’s longer than he watched the game.”

“The game is on mute.”

“So are you, supposedly.”

MJ’s hand tightened in my hair.

“Don’t you dare stop,” he told me. “Don’t you — fuck — don’t you pull off.”

I couldn’t pull off. I had no hands and his fist was a collar.

Nick was stroking in time with MJ now and hating himself for the time. The thick of him shone at the tip. He looked at my mouth stretched around someone else and his jaw flexed like he was biting down on the sentence I wanted him to say.

“This is so gay. This is the gayest thing I have ever seen and I’m participating with my eyes.”

“Then close them,” Omar said.

Nick didn’t close them.

Nate’s throat moved. He did not touch himself where we could see. His eyes were on my mouth and they were not office eyes. They were the eyes from the first truth, the shower, the unassigned mouth. I caught them for a second over MJ’s hip and he didn’t look away fast enough.

Vincent’s voice broke on the next sentence.

“I’m hard again. I’m not even sorry. This is the best night of my entire academic career.”

“Sit on your hands,” Nate said.

“I am conceptually sitting on my hands.”

MJ’s rhythm went sloppy. Champion sloppy. The strokes got shorter and meaner, punching into my throat, holding, punching. I gagged in a chain I couldn’t stop. Spit bubbled at the corners of my mouth. My nose was running. I could hear myself, wrecked, and I could hear him, wrecked, and the room leaning in.

Nick stood halfway off the couch and sat back down like his legs had voted without him.

“I’m gonna lose my mind if you come before I even—”

“You already lost,” MJ said. “Sit down, fatty.”

“I am not fatty, I’m burly.”

“You lost a push-up contest to a man who eats wings as a personality. You’re fatty adjacent.”

The room howled. Nick’s fist tightened on himself and he laughed once, ugly, and the laugh turned into a sound that was not a laugh.

“I’m gonna — I’m gonna use it,” MJ said, almost prayer. “I’m gonna come down his throat. That’s the prize. That’s the whole — fuck — that’s the whole bracket.”

“Do it,” Vincent whispered.

“Do it,” Nick said, furious, hungry, the two things braided. “If I don’t get it then you finish. Don’t waste it. Don’t pull out. I want to see him take it.”

Omar’s pillow had a shape under it he was not going to explain.

“Mascot asked for this,” Omar said quietly. “Let him have it.”

I had not asked with my mouth. I had asked with everything else. I wanted the finish. I wanted it in me. I wanted Nick to watch it happen and hate it and want it. I opened as wide as the rope and the night would let me.

MJ buried himself.

All of it. He punched to the root and his hips locked and a sound came out of him that was not a joke and not a cheer, just a raw punched groan, the kind he made when a lift locked out and the plate didn’t move. He came in my throat in heavy pulses I could feel more than taste. Hot. A lot. No air. My body panicked. I gagged around the flood and it had nowhere to go. Pressure found the only other door.

It came out my nose.

I felt it before I understood it — a hot slide, thick, wrong, running down over my lip to meet the mess already there. My eyes streamed. MJ held me on him through it, shaking, whispering fuck fuck fuck like a chant, and when he finally dragged back my mouth came off him with a wet gasp and I coughed and more of it hit my tongue and my chin and a bright streak marked my upper lip from the inside out.

The living room detonated.

MJ saw it first. He was still holding himself, still jumping, still the champion, and then his eyes went wide and he pointed at my face and started laughing so hard he had to bend over.

“His nose. His — bro — it came out his nose.”

Nick howled. Actual howl. He fell sideways on the couch with his cock still in his fist and tears in his eyes.

“That’s not a blowjob. That’s a fountain. That’s a civic event. Somebody call the building.”

Vincent was on the floor. Again. He couldn’t breathe. The tent in his sweatpants was obscene and he did not care.

“Sinus pathway. That’s — that’s not supposed to — I need a diagram.”

Nate had a hand over his hair. He was laughing too, helpless, the serious face cracked all the way down.

“Jesus Christ. He shot out of his face. That’s — that’s a medical situation.”

Omar had lost the pillow for one second when he leaned forward to see, and then the pillow slammed back down. He was laughing with his head tipped back, green eyes wet, the Prince of Persia gone, just a guy in a living room watching his friend leak out of another friend’s nose.

“Mascot,” Omar managed. “You’re a hazard.”

I coughed again. It tasted like MJ. It burned in my nose. I could feel it on my lip. I could not wipe it. The rope held. I stayed on my knees with my mouth open and my face a disaster and my shorts a lost cause and the luckiest, stupidest warmth still running through me.

MJ tucked himself away badly, still laughing, still shaking his head.

“I didn’t mean to do that. I mean I meant to finish. I didn’t mean the nose thing. That’s on his plumbing.”

“That’s on your size,” Nick said, wiping his eyes. “That’s a firehose in a garden hose. What did you think was going to happen.”

“I thought he was going to swallow like a person.”

“He did,” Vincent said, wheezing. “And then some.”

I dragged air. My throat was raw. My wrists throbbed. I wanted water. I wanted to say Nick’s name. I wanted to say you next and I swallowed it with the rest because the game had rules and I had already broken the ones that mattered by wanting all of them.

Nick stood up.

The laugh was still on his face. It died on the way to his feet. The gray shorts were gone enough that he didn’t bother with them. He had himself in his hand, thick, veined, flushed, the thing I had put my mouth under two hours ago and not been allowed to finish. He looked at me — nose streaked, chin shining, eyes wrecked — and the blond beard didn’t hide anything.

“Fuck the rules,” he said. His voice had gone rough. “Fuck this game.”

Vincent started to speak.

Nick didn’t let him.

“I want head too.”

He took one step off the couch.

Nobody told him to sit down.

That was the problem.

That was the next door.